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Canada/France 1998
Reviewed by Richard Kelly
Our synopses give away the plot in full, including surprise twists.
A Canadian city, 6 pm. The world is due to end at midnight. Patrick Wheeler attends a last 'Christmas' dinner with his family. His sister Jennifer and her boyfriend Alex are going to a party. Patrick's parents try in vain to dissuade Patrick from leaving to spend the final hours alone. Gas-company executive Duncan and his colleague Donna attempt to keep services running until the end. Sandra is trying to join her husband at home, but her car is wrecked by revellers, civil order having collapsed. Craig makes love to a succession of women, including his high-school French teacher Mrs Carlton.
Patrick meets Sandra on his doorstep, and takes her to Craig's where she borrows a car. Craig tells Patrick he is attempting to fit in every conceivable sexual activity, but Patrick declines Craig's proposition to have sex with him. Sandra is unable to drive through the throng of revellers in the city. Duncan is killed in his home by a stranger. As midnight approaches, Craig relieves Donna of her virginity. Sandra (Duncan's wife) returns and asks Patrick to replace Duncan in a suicide pact the couple had planned. They hold guns to each other's heads, but at the last moment, they kiss.
"Millenniums," disgraced MP Peter Mandelson once wrote with customary acuity, "only come once in a thousand years." Good job too, since they are widely supposed to provoke all manner of feverish atavism in the populace. But as we now face down the year 2000, our fevers seem to find expression only in senseless pop songs and disaster movies about meteors. Fair play then to actor-director Don McKellar: few millennarian dramas have been so muted and mild-mannered as his directorial debut.
One would like to forswear cultural stereotypes, but as a vision of terminal chaos and decadence, Last Night is deeply bourgeois-Canadian. There's a lot of finicky emoting, not much in the way of liberating gut-laughter, and it all seems to unfold in a series of tasteful Toronto apartments. David Cronenberg once described the experience of making his film Shivers (1974) in a Montreal apartment block: "We all wanted to rip that place apart and run naked, screaming, through the halls." Here, however, the cultivated sterility of early Atom Egoyan pervades the proceedings. One's heart sinks with the appearance of Egoyan regular Arsinée Khanjian in a typically haunted, waxen cameo.
McKellar's cleverest visual trick is that the entire drama is played out in broad daylight: darkness never falls, even at the bitter end. But his refusal to explain exactly why the end is nigh is a very contemporary cop-out. The dialogue has much sport at the expense of mobile phones, mainframes and internet pick-ups, so there's a nagging sense throughout that humankind has meekly consented to its own destruction, in a devil's pact with impersonal technologies. But some vague nostalgia for human spirit and solidarity can be discerned, for example when Patrick lectures Sandra on the socialist significance of Pete Seeger's version of José Marti's 'Guantanamera'.
To his great credit, McKellar has picked some fine performers, and engineered a good number of grace notes. As the keen libertine Craig, Callum Keith Rennie has a wiry, raffish sexual presence, his bedroom chores accompanied always by Parliament's 'I've Been Watching You'. As one of Craig's last partners, the wonderful Geneviève Bujold brings a draft of wanton elegance to the affair. Tracy Wright does an endearing turn as virginal office stalwart Donna, hoping finally to escape her fruitless workplace. And David Cronenberg himself is well cast as the aspirant suicide Duncan, forced to confront the reaper before his self-appointed hour. The reasoning purr of Cronenberg's voice, and his blankly sinister face (into which all available shadows seem to fly) are ideal for the task.
McKellar's only mistake was to craft the niggling central role of Patrick, and then play it himself. His prickly, nebbish persona can't give the movie a spine. When Patrick and Craig are alone and Craig makes a modest proposal that they get horizontal, the audience anticipates Patrick's wary flinch well before it comes. If he had stuck his tongue down his fellow actor's throat, he'd have sent us careering off into a much livelier movie.
Instead, the final, calculated exchange of fates is a bit of a let-down. Duncan dies alone, and we're denied what would have been an intriguing last intimacy between him and Sandra. Patrick steps in to deputise, and at last we learn the excuse for his quavering reticence throughout the film: his saintly girlfriend Karen - a kindergarten teacher, of course - was lately and cruelly snatched from him by death. Thus as all humanity faces extinction, Patrick wants to be loved for his very own personal tragedy. The sentiment feels strangely late-twentieth century in its towering conceit, but it's at least as old as 'September 1, 1939'. "Not universal love/But to be loved alone": this craving Auden ruefully skewered as the commonest of human failings, before proposing that "we must love one another or die."